Red April

Thursday, April 6 / Sunday, April 9

“First of all, I want you to know we are very proud of you, Prosecutor Chacaltana. And that the Armed Forces of this Nation count on your Tireless Efforts on behalf of Law and Order.”

It seemed to Prosecutor Chacaltana that all those words were spoken in capital letters, like the certificates, not to mention the medals and flags, covering the walls of Commander Carrión's office behind his immense desk chair. While a lieutenant served two cups of mate, Chacaltana noticed that the commander looked taller from the small armchair where the prosecutor had been seated.

“Thank you, Señor.”

“I must confess we had our doubts as to whether civil justice could contend with a case of this kind. If you don't mind my saying so, not all bureaucrats are prepared to understand what goes on here. Those from Lima, even less so.”

“I am from Ayacucho, Señor.”

“I know. And that too fills us with pride.”

Prosecutor Chacaltana wondered what one had to do to be from a place. What made him more from Ayacucho than from Lima, where he had always lived? He thought his place was where his roots and affections were. And Ayacucho was fine. And getting better.

The weeks following the presentation of his report had been unexpectedly pleasant. Suddenly Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar seemed to have been promoted. He stopped receiving a subordinate's assignments, and even Judge Briceño sent his congratulations in writing on the speed and efficiency with which he had resolved the question of Quinua without needing to alarm the public. The day after he closed the case, he received his new typewriter and enough carbon paper to make the copies he needed for all his cases. Even his dreams had become serene, a curtain of peace closing over his nightmares about fire. And at the end of the week, the commander had sent for him. It was unusual for the commander to meet with functionaries, and even more unusual for him to invite them to his office. The prosecutor felt content, but he did not want to take advantage of his position:

“I believe the entity that should really be thanked for its investigation is the National Police, which gave constant indications of efficiency and commitment …”

“You are an example of humility, Señor Prosecutor. Captain Pacheco has already informed me that this case would not have moved forward if it had not been for your decisiveness and courage.”

“Thank you, Señor.”

The commander leaned back in his chair and drank a little mate. He seemed relaxed. He did not look as menacing as he had the first time. The prosecutor attributed this to the fact that they were gaining confidence in each other. The commander continued:

“The majority of these cases are never resolved. Often proceedings are not even opened because nobody demands it. But it is always better to have everything archived and organized legally. Our best weapon is doing things well, don't you agree?”

“Of course, Señor.”

Feeling authorized to do so, the prosecutor also took a sip of mate. He thought of Edith. He had not wanted to go to her restaurant with the bandage on his neck; he had not wanted her to see his injury. He did stop by one morning to say hello. She had welcomed him with her brilliant smile. He had promised to return and walked out backward so she would not see his wound. But that morning he had removed the bandage. And the scar did not look bad. Perhaps he ought to stop by when he left the commander's office so she would not think he was an opportunist. And to celebrate.

“That is precisely why I wanted to see you,” the commander continued. “Now the time has come for us to concentrate on the elections. We need trustworthy people who believe in legality, and in Peru, to face the great challenges of the twenty-first century.”

“I will be delighted to do whatever I can, Commander.”

“As I am that you'll collaborate with us. But first I'd like to ask a few questions.”

The commander took a folder from his desk. It was a thick file filled with papers and some photographs. The prosecutor recognized the documents. It was his work file, though it looked much thicker than a normal work dossier. The commander put on his glasses and turned several pages. He stopped at one:

“It says here that you personally requested your transfer to Ayacucho.”

“That is correct, Señor. I wanted to return home.”

“You left here after the death of your mother, is that so?”

“Yes, it is. I went to live with her sister, who resided in Lima.”

“How did your mother die? Was she … a victim of terrorism?”

“No, Señor. She died … years before the start of all that …”

A dark mass agitated his memory. He tried to go on without trembling:

“She died in a fire. I was nine.”

For the first time, the commander gave signs of having an emotion.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“It is all right, Señor. She will always be alive … in my heart.”

“And your father?”

“I never knew him, Señor. I never asked about him. In a sense, I never had a father.”

There was a photograph in his memory. His mother with a man, smiling. He looked white, perhaps a Limenian. It was in his mother's room, on the bureau. No. It was not there anymore. It never had been there.

“It also says that you're married.”

“Yes, Señor.”

“I don't think we've seen Señora Chacaltana here.”

Félix Chacaltana Saldívar felt uncomfortable. He remembered a cup with no coffee, an empty space in bed, the absence of a voice at the bathroom door in the morning.

“There is no Señora Chacaltana anymore, Señor.”

“Did she pass away too?”

“No, no! She simply left. A little over a year ago. She said I … had no ambition. Then I requested my transfer.”

He wondered why he had said that to Commander Carrión. He had not asked for so many details.

“Not having ambitions is a good thing,” the military man replied. “There are more than enough ambitions here. Children?”

With his glasses bent over the folder, the commander looked back and forth from his papers to the prosecutor, who seemed to grow smaller in his chair.

“No. I believe that was another reason she left.”

“That doesn't constitute grounds for divorce.”

“I did not ask for one. I thought that … there was no need. I did not want to marry again. Ever. Excuse me, Señor. Am I authorized to ask why …?”

He did not want to say more. The commander removed his glasses and gave him a father's smile. What probably was a father's smile, at least.

“I'm sorry to ask you these personal questions. Believe me, they're necessary. But I don't need to know any more. I think you're perfect for the work we need. You have no family, and so you can travel. Further, you're a man who loves his home and respects the family, an honorable man.”

The kind of man who dies with no survivors, thought Chacaltana. He asked himself who would smooth his sheets after he died.

“Will it be necessary to travel, Señor?”

“You'll see, Chacaltana. The elections are on Sunday and we need qualified personnel committed to the defense of democracy. Do you understand?”

He did not understand anything.

“Yes, Señor.”

“In the villages that will be visited by reporters we'll need electoral prosecutors we can trust.”

Chacaltana reviewed mentally the electoral laws and the statutes of the Ministry of Justice. He found a contradiction.

“Commander, the electoral prosecutors do not belong to the Ministry of Justice. They are functionaries of the National Election Board or the National Office of Electoral Processes …”

“Yes, of course. But we don't want to get involved in titles and words. That's for the politicians. After all, a prosecutor is a prosecutor, Chacaltana, for whatever his country requires of him. And you are perfectly qualified.”

“It is a great honor … I do not know if I have time to take the corresponding training course or prepare myself … Besides, I have to speak to my superiors …”

“We have confidence in your ability, Chacaltana, forget about training courses. I'll attend to all the details: you can take a paid leave for granted, and don't worry about bureaucratic obstacles. The high command of the armed forces will take care of all the paperwork.”

The commander took out another file. Inside was a signed accreditation as an electoral prosecutor with Chacaltana's photograph, some money for travel expenses, bus tickets, a booklet on electoral legislation, and other papers. Chacaltana felt like a privileged individual.

“It is an honor that you have thought of me to …”

“You absolutely deserve it, Prosecutor Chacaltana.”

“Where will you send me, and when?”

“To Yawarmayo. Your bus leaves in two hours.”

“That soon?”

“The nation has no time to lose, Señor Prosecutor. And the elections are on Sunday. Any questions?”

“No, Señor.”

“You can leave, then. I hope this is the start of a promising career, Chacaltana.”

“Thank you, Señor.”

He left the building with a quiver of emotion in his jaw. For the first time in many years he felt euphoria. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief. At last, his work was being recognized. He felt he had to share his success with someone before he took the bus. Almost unconsciously, he found himself at El Huamanguino. He greeted the waitress with a big smile.

“I bought some mate for you. And today there's a spicy puca,” she greeted him in return.

“I did not come in for lunch. I …”

“The tables are for eating lunch. If you don't have lunch, you can't sit down.”

“Bring me one, then.”

He waited the prescribed length of time, longing to speak. A soap opera was playing on television, and a woman was weeping copiously for her man. This time, on the plate Edith served him, there were cracklings, a pig's foot, and warm potatoes.

“I am being sent on a trip,” Chacaltana said proudly.

“Really?”

“Yes, yes. I did some good work. And I have been appointed to supervise the elections.”

“Congratulations! That deserves a little glass of chicha.”

“No thanks. I don't drink.”

Still, she poured him a glass of sweetish, dark red liquid.

“You don't have any vices, do you? Your wife must be happy …”

“I don't have a wife, either.”

“Ah. Are you going to try the puca?”

“It is just … just that I do not have time … but listen … When I get back … in a few days … I think I will be invited to some galas. High command affairs. Important engagements.”

“And you won't come back anymore?”

She seemed sad when she said that. The prosecutor was encouraged to see that.

“On the contrary. I will come back. But I would also like … well …”

“Yes?”

“The authorities attend these events with their wives, their spouses.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to take you, Edith. If you would not mind.”

He realized that now he, like Edith, was using the formal usted. She laughed.

“Me? Why me?”

“Because … because I do not know anyone else in the city …”

Now she frowned. He tried to rectify his mistake. He had lost the habit of saying certain things, but perhaps he had never said them.

“… anyone as pretty as you.”

“Now you're talking foolishness!”

“It is not foolishness.”

“Are you going to eat or not?”

“It will not be possible. I am leaving now. I have to hurry and pack my bag. Will you go with me when I get back? Will you?”

She turned as red as a chili pepper. She laughed. She seemed to laugh at everything. And when she laughed, she appeared to shine. On television, the villainess of a soap opera threatened her rival because she was trying to take her man.

“Yes,” said Edith.

The prosecutor felt that his day was complete. That his year in Ayacucho was complete. He felt happy as he stood up. Surreptitiously, he left the money for lunch on the table so she could not refuse it. He approached her to say good-bye. She was holding a rag. He opened his arms. Then he lowered them. He did not want to take liberties. He held out his hand. She took it. He said:

“Thank you. We will see each other soon.”

She nodded and seemed embarrassed. The prosecutor hurried to his house.

“Mamacita, I don't have time to explain everything to you, but I'm happy.” He took the underwear he found and put it in an old sports bag. “You'll see how well everything turns out, Mamacita. I'm sure that after this they'll pay me more and I'll buy you new pajamas, you'll see.” He packed ties and shirts and took two jackets and a pair of trousers from their hangers. “And then Edith. You'll meet Edith. You'll like her. Good-bye, Mamacita.”

He closed the doors and windows and hurried to the terminal. Halfway there he stopped and went back. He found the house keys in the suitcase and went in. He hurried to the back room, took a photograph of his mother when she was very young, posing for the camera in an embroidered dress. He noted carefully that there was no photograph of her smiling with a man who looked as if he came from Lima. He confirmed it. He kissed the photograph, put it in his bag, and went out again.

There was mass confusion in the terminal. The four o'clock bus was full, and his name did not appear on the reservation list. A woman with four children shouted at him for trying to steal her place. The driver ordered him to get off and stop causing trouble. Finally, after fifteen minutes of arguing, a surly employee of the bus line asked him to take the night bus. Prosecutor Chacaltana thought he would have more time to eat with Edith and say good-bye to his mother, and he agreed. Then it occurred to him that if the military people saw him outside the station, they would think he was abandoning his post, and so he sat down to wait seven and a half hours for the departure of the next bus after making certain that this time his name was on the reservation list. He used the time to review the electoral laws and the regulations for observers.

That night, his bus left only fifteen minutes late. Another sign that Ayacucho was moving with a firm step toward the future. Yawarmayo was seven hours to the northeast, toward Ceja de Selva. Although the darkness did not allow him to see anything through the window, the prosecutor made the trip guessing at the unpaved roads the bus was rattling along, the flat-top hills that surrounded the city, and then the progressive change of the countryside from dry sierra to the wild green of the mountains. From time to time he dozed off and was awakened by the jolting of the bus over some pothole. A moment came when he did not know if he was asleep or awake, if his happiness was real or dreamed.

Until he opened his eyes.

The bus had stopped. He looked at the time: four in the morning. He saw the fogged-over glass in the windows. He wiped his so he could look outside. Lashed by the wind, the rain fell horizontally. It was hailing. He noticed that the person sitting beside him had disappeared, along with a good number of other people. The lights were turned on and the bus was half empty, occupied only by women with sleep-crusted eyes. From the door, someone, perhaps the driver, was shouting:

“They said for all the men to get out! Only the men!”

The prosecutor did not understand what was going on. He tried to catch a glimpse of something in the darkness outside. The interior lights of the bus allowed him to make out only some hooded silhouettes and the projection of bayonets slung over their shoulders.

He had a rapid memory of the last time he had visited Ayacucho to see his mother before he came back to live there. It had been in the early eighties, when he was a recent appointee to the ministry. Before it reached the city, his bus had been stopped by a terrorist group that had asked all the passengers for their identification. The military men wearing civilian clothes ate their papers. The prosecutor also swallowed his identity card from the Ministry of Justice. The terrorists had taken all the electoral identification cards from the bus and then torn them up in front of the owners:

“You no longer have documents,” they shouted, “you can't vote, you're not citizens! Long Live the People's War! Long Live the Communist Party of Peru! Long Live President Gonzalo!”

They made everyone repeat their slogans and left after stealing the little the passengers had with them. They wore balaclavas and carried weapons. Like those who had stopped the bus now.

At the door, the driver called again for the men. Two others who had been asleep walked to the door, rubbing their eyes. The prosecutor wondered if he ought to swallow his identification as an election inspector. But the document was encased in plastic. It was impossible to chew. He hid it under his seat and stood up. He walked to the door. When he climbed down, a man in a black balaclava began to shove him and drag him to the line that the others were forming. The rain fell like a whip against his face. He verified with relief that the man pushing him wore the green uniform of the army. He tried to identify himself:

“I am Associate District Prosecutor Félix …!”

The other man responded with a shove. When his turn came, a sergeant faced him, also hidden behind his balaclava. Between the mask, the rain, the fear, and his dreadful Spanish, he could hardly be heard when he shouted:

“shhhhwmmmmyrccccrrrt!”

Accustomed to roundups, the prosecutor took out his national ID. The other man scrutinized it carefully and looked the functionary in the face. It was difficult to read the expression in his eyes. He returned the document and shouted again:

“shhhhwmmmmmyyrrrrccccrt!”

The prosecutor showed him his military identification. The other man nodded and returned it to him. The first man pushed him back to the bus. The prosecutor climbed in, feeling calmer, thinking that his safety was guaranteed day and night by the armed forces.

The bus started moving again and Félix Chacaltana Saldívar retrieved his election identification and went back to sleep. He woke in the light of dawn with the image of a river running down the slopes of the hill the vehicle was descending. As the rain clouds dispersed, the sky recovered its comforting brightness.

The bus stopped at seven in the morning. The prosecutor climbed down and picked up his suitcase from among the sacks of potatoes and cages of animals. There was no terminal. The bus had stopped only to drop him off. The town was two hours away. It was the same length of time until the public offices opened. The prosecutor was supposed to go to the National Office for Electoral Processes and to the National Police. He thought he would arrive in time to have breakfast. He walked along a dusty road, his baggage on his back. He crossed the river and two hills that turned out to be higher than they had seemed at first. He would stop periodically to make certain his suit was not wrinkling or becoming covered with dust.

Finally he reached a valley. In the distance he could see Yawarmayo. As he walked toward it, he thought he saw someone at the entrance to the village. He thought the appropriate authorities were waiting for him. He waved his hand. The person did not return his greeting. When he came to the edge of the village, no one was there. No business was open. No certainty that there was a single restaurant or a single person. Not even a piece of asphalt. Only streetlights in the distance, still on in spite of the daylight.

The streetlights seemed to be decorated with wreaths or some kind of colored decoration. He thought it was probably a remnant of Carnival or an ornament for Holy Week. He dusted off his trousers and readjusted the hanger with his suit, his file, and his sports bag. He continued walking.

Only when he stood at the foot of the streetlights could he see up close what hung from them. Dogs. Some strangled, others beheaded, some slit open, their internal organs dribbling from their bellies. He dropped the bag. A chill ran down his spine. The dogs wore signs that said: “This is how traitors die,” or “Death to turncoats.”

The prosecutor felt dizzy. He had to lean against a wall. He felt alone in the middle of the street where, he noticed again, no one else was walking this morning.

He was still there half an hour later. He had failed to find an open door. He did not know what to do, where to go. Until the first shadows appeared on the street. They belonged to police, walking heavily and carrying ladders to take down the dogs. They leaned their ladders against the streetlights and removed the animals following an established order, more bored than repelled, as if accustomed to a routine of canine corpses. Félix Chacaltana thought about the commander's words. Don't look for horses where there are only dogs.

The detail, as far as Chacaltana could tell, consisted of five skinny men with puffy eyes. None could have been more than nineteen. None looked at him. He walked up to one, who was holding a ladder:

“Good morning. I am looking for Lieutenant Aramayo.”

The policeman gave him a suspicious look. The prosecutor showed him his identification. A dog fell down, almost on his head. A cloud of flies followed it. Behind him, the prosecutor heard a commanding voice:

“Damn it, Yupanqui. Don't throw around the dogs that spatter. Motherfucker …”

The prosecutor deduced it was the voice he was looking for. He turned and saw an officer of about fifty whose belly overflowed the khaki shirt of his uniform.

“Lieutenant Aramayo?”

“What?”

“I am the election inspec …”

“Shit, Gonza! With your hands! Like a man!”

Two lampposts further on, a policeman was trying to push the dog with a wire to see if it would fall without his needing to touch it. With a resigned face, he let go of the wire and continued untying the animal with both hands. The prosecutor tried to make himself heard:

“I have come with regard to observing the election.”

The lieutenant seemed to have just noticed the visitor. He looked him up and down with a distrustful expression.

“To do what?”

“To obser …”

“Papers. I want to see your papers.”

He showed him his identification card. The lieutenant studied it on both sides. He asked:

“Who sent you?”

“The National Office of Pro …”

“Who sent you, Chacaltana?”

“Commander Carrión, Señor.”

The policeman's eyes lost their contempt.

“Come have breakfast with me. And you, Yupanqui! I want to see this all cleaned up within the hour.”

The local police station had only one floor, divided into two separate spaces. In one, waiting on a desk, were two tamales, a little cheese, bread, and café con leche. The mattresses where the police had spent the night were still on the floor. The lieutenant divided everything in half and invited the prosecutor to sit down. Once again, Chacaltana was not hungry. But the lieutenant ate like a horse.

“This … Is it normal?” asked the prosecutor.

“What? The tamales?”

“The dogs.”

“Well, that depends, Señor Prosecutor. What's normal for you?” he asked, swallowing a piece of bread he had dipped into the milk.

“I did not know that … Sendero was still operating in the area.”

The lieutenant's laugh went down the wrong way when he took a swallow from the cup.

“Operating? Ha, ha. Yes, a little. More like fucking us up.”

“I have come to attend to the subject of the elections. You know that observers will be coming and …”

“It would be fine, damn it, if somebody would observe something around here.”

He laughed again, displaying a piece of half-chewed tamale. The prosecutor interrupted. Recently he had not really been able to know exactly what his conversations were about. He tended to lose the thread. He tried to recapitulate:

“And how long ago did you verify this outbreak?”

“What outbreak? This isn't an outbreak, Chacaltana. This has been going on for twenty years.”

“Ah.”

“They offered me a transfer to Lima and the rank of captain if I agreed to suck the dick of some commander in the capital. But I refused. So they sent me here to fuck me over. Here where you see me, Señor Prosecutor, the most honest thing in this shit village is me. Are you going to eat that?”

“No, you go ahead.”

The lieutenant finished off the second tamale in almost one mouthful. The prosecutor continued to obtain information:

“And haven't you asked for reinforcements?”

“Reinforcements? Of course. We also asked for a swimming pool and a couple of whores. And here we are.”

The lieutenant lit a cigarette and belched. The prosecutor thought this was how he had concluded the conversation regarding the subject of Sendero.

“Well. With respect to the electoral program, I have been reviewing the law. I wonder if the tables have been prepared for the prisoners to vote and the …”

“The prisoners? You want us to let out the prisoners? Forget about them. They don't vote.”

“But the electoral law specifies that …”

“Ha, ha. You tell Commander Carrión that you want to take the lousy terrorists out of their cells. You'll see where your electoral law gets you.”

“Permit me to read to you what it says in this regard in this brochure; I have a copy for you …”

The lieutenant did not even look at the brochure. He stared into the visitor's eyes and adopted an attitude of seriousness and resolve.

“No, permit me to tell you what you're going to do. In the first place, I don't want you to go around attracting attention. No official vehicles or distinctive markings: absolutely no jackets, uniforms, or insignias. You'll make yourself a target and I'll be blamed for it. The last inspector who came through here thought he was a real tough guy. He came in making a lot of noise. He drove a car with polarized glass and two bodyguards. The damn terrorists saw polarized glass and said, ‘Whoever's inside that car has to be important.’ Seventy bullet holes from FAL rifles in the body of the car. And hand grenades. The bodyguards, dead. The inspector, seriously wounded, I think he lost an eye. He never came back here, the dumb prick.”

Félix Chacaltana Saldívar could not think of anything to say. He looked at the remains of the tamales, a piece of chicken skin hanging from one of them. He sat looking at the lieutenant as he finished his cigarette. The lieutenant did not say anything else either. In any case, the prosecutor put the brochure on the table for him before he stood up.

“Well,” said Chacaltana, “having made the necessary introductions, it is time to look for a place to stay.”

“Find Yupanqui, the guy taking care of the dogs. He's a prick, but he'll help you.”

Once more the prosecutor put his bag and the hanger with his suit on his back. When he was almost at the door he heard the police officer's voice again:

“Listen, Chacaltana, do you know … I mean, are you aware of where they've sent you?”

“This is the village of Yawarmayo, isn't it?”

The lieutenant smiled and exhaled the last mouthful of smoke.

“No, Chacaltana. This is hell. In the name of the National Police, I bid you welcome.”

He found Yupanqui a few streets away. He had just finished putting all the dogs in large black bags meant for humans, which the rest of the men dragged away to incinerate outside the village. Yupanqui explained to the prosecutor that there were no hotels in the village, but he could stay in a private house, where they were always glad to take in a visitor. He took him the length of the village to a house that was a little larger than the rest. When they reached the entrance, he shouted:

“Teodoroooo!”

And he pounded on the door while he continued to shout. At times he would turn to the prosecutor with an apologetic smile. When Chacaltana was about to suggest that perhaps no one was in the house, the door opened, revealing a man with his wife and three children. It was as if they were all petrified, looking at the visitor. The policeman said something to them in Quechua. The man responded. The policeman raised his voice. The man shook his head vehemently. Then the entire family responded by shouting, all at the same time, but the policeman shouted back and took out his club. The prosecutor thought he was going to hit them, but he did nothing more than shake the weapon in the air in a menacing way. In the middle of the argument, he turned to Chacaltana and said in Spanish:

“Do you have dough?”

“What?”

“I said do you have money? Any amount.”

The prosecutor took two one-sol coins from his pocket. When they saw the coins, the members of the family suddenly fell silent. The policeman gave them the coins and indicated to Chacaltana with a gesture to put his things down on the floor. Then he left. A place to stay had been arranged.

Chacaltana remained standing, facing his hosts. There was no place to sit. Only a pot on a pile of burned wood and some weavings on the floor.

“Good morning,” he said, “I hope I am not causing you any inconvenience.”

The others looked at him and said nothing.

“May I leave my things here? They are not in the way? … Would you happen to know where the National Office of Electoral Processes is located? No?”

He tried to think of where he could hang his suit. A cross hung from the only nail in the house, and he did not want to take that down, out of respect for the family. He folded the suit as carefully as he could and left it in a corner, on top of the bag. Then he said good-bye respectfully and went out to proceed with his labors. No one said good-bye to him.

The National Office of Electoral Processes, according to what he was told at the police station, had been set up in the house of Johnatan Cahuide Alosilla, who owned some fields under cultivation outside the village and would be in charge of the polls and the counting of votes. As soon as he entered, the Associate District Prosecutor saw a poster of the president, like Captain Pacheco's, but bigger. He introduced himself. Johnatan Cahuide, the head and sole functionary in the office, greeted him pleasantly. He assured him that everything was ready for the elections. The prosecutor remarked:

“Excuse me, Johnatan, but we will have to take down that photograph of the president. The law stipulates that electoral advertising is forbidden two days prior to the ninth of April.”

“That? That's not electoral advertising. This is an office of the state. It's a photograph of the chief.”

“But the chief is a candidate.”

“Yes, but there he doesn't appear as a candidate but as the president.”

The Associate District Prosecutor — now Provisional Electoral Inspector — promised himself that he would review the relevant clause in the law.

“How many people are going to vote here?”

“Three thousand. Tables will be set up in public school Alberto Fujimori Fujimori.”

“That is the name of the school?”

“That's right. The president founded it almost in person.”

“And do you think we could cover over that name? The law stipulates that electoral advertis …”

“That isn't electoral advertising. That's the name of the school.”

“Of course. Has the training been completed for the poll workers?”

“Yes.” Johnatan Cahuide showed him the registration sheets. “The authority approved two people.”

“Two?”

“That's right, Señor Chacaltana. Most of the poll workers have to travel by mule for two days and bring their family because they don't have anybody to leave them with. And so they don't come. We're lucky if they come on Sunday to vote.”

“But are they informed about the candidates … about their rights?”

“The army boys …”

“The personnel of the armed forces.” The prosecutor corrected him.

“That's right. They go up there and tell the campesinos they have the technology to know who it is they vote for. That is, they'll all vote for the president.”

“But that is … that is false and illegal.”

“Well, yes. They're bastards, those army boys,” replied Cahuide with a mischievous smile.

The prosecutor wondered if the official himself had completed the relevant training courses.

After eating lunch with him, the prosecutor went alone to see the school where the voting tables would be set up. The Alberto Fujimori Fujimori School was small, with two classrooms and a courtyard in the center of the building. There would be two tables in each of the classrooms. He made some notes, but in general he thought the location was adequate. He returned to the street. Since the dogs had been taken down, the village was coming back to life. Campesinos walked by with their tools, and women went down to the river to wash clothes. At times the prosecutor managed to forget about the morning's episode.

When he turned a corner, he bent down to tie his shoe. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the same figure he had glimpsed in the distance as he was approaching the village. A campesino, closer to him now. He turned to look at him, but no one was there. He thought perhaps he had only imagined it. He walked to the corner. Only women were out on the dirt streets of the village.

That night, he returned to his lodgings. When he walked in, the entire family was crowded into the back room, not speaking. The prosecutor's things were where he had left them, intact, beside a woolen blanket.

“Good evening,” he said.

No one answered. He did not know if he should undress in front of all of them. He found it embarrassing. He took off his jacket, tie, and shoes and lay down in his place. It did not take him long to fall asleep. He was very tired. In his dream, his mother was crossing the mountains in the cold sierra night, between enormous bonfires that lit up the countryside. She walked with a sweet gaze and a smile filled with peace. She seemed to be approaching her son, who waited for her with open arms. But when she was very close, she turned away. She began to walk toward one of the fires. Félix Chacaltana ran to stop her, but it was as if he were running in place, not moving forward, while she approached the flames without losing her smile. He shouted, but she did not turn around. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks as she walked closer to the bonfire. It seemed to him that his tears were made of blood, like the tears of the Virgins. When she placed her foot on the flames, he heard the explosion.

He sat up in a sweat, his heart pounding. He supposed the explosion had been part of his dream. He turned toward Teodoro's family, who had not moved from their corner. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw them looking at him, crouching in their corner like frightened cats. They were not asleep. Perhaps they had not been asleep all night. He wondered if he might have called out during his nightmare.

He turned toward the wall and tried to go back to sleep, but he heard noises, echoes, distant shouts. The sound seemed to come from everywhere but remain distant. He tried to understand what they were saying. The tone of voice, the timbre, sounded familiar. Then he heard the second explosion.

The family had not moved from their place.

The prosecutor stood up:

“What is going on?”

No one in the family replied. Huddled together, this time they gave him the impression of a nest of snakes. The prosecutor began to lose patience.

“What is going on?” he shouted, picking Teodoro up by his shirt. He felt the man's alcohol breath on his face. Teodoro began to speak in Quechua. His voice sounded like a lament, as if he were apologizing for something.

“Talk to me in Spanish, damn it! What is going on?”

The quiet lament continued. His wife began to cry. So did the children. Félix Chacaltana let Teodoro go and went to the window. There was fire in the mountains. Lights. The image of his mother was fixed for a moment in his mind. He opened the door and went out. Now he heard the shouts more clearly. They were the same shouts he had heard many years before, on the bus that had taken him to Ayacucho. Slogans. Enormous bonfires topped the mountains at each of the cardinal points. Up above, just behind him, the figure of the hammer and sickle outlined in fire hovered in the night over the village.

The prosecutor ran to the police station. No one passed him in the street. Not even any people looking out the windows. The houses seemed like mass graves, blind, mute, and deaf to what was happening in the hills. He reached the station and pounded on the door:

“Aramayooooo! Aramayoooo! Open up!”

No response. Only howls from the hills. Long Live. The Communist Party of Peru. President Gonzalo. They seemed to grow louder and surround him, suffocate him. He wondered if the terrorists would come down and where he would hide if they did. He beat on the door again. Finally it opened. The five policemen and the lieutenant were inside. The lieutenant's shirt was open and he held a bottle of pisco in his hand. The prosecutor walked in shouting:

“It's an attack, Aramayo! They're all around us!”

“We've seen it, Señor Prosecutor,” the police officer responded calmly.

His passivity hurt Chacaltana more than the shouts from the mountains. He grabbed him by the front of his open shirt, just as he had grabbed Teodoro earlier.

“And what are you going to do! Answer me! What are you going to do!”

The lieutenant did not lose his serenity:

“Chacaltana, let me go or I'll smash your face in.”

Chacaltana became conscious of his hysteria. He released the police officer, who offered him some pisco. The rest of the police were on the floor, petrified, holding their weapons. They were so young. Outside, the shouts continued. The hammer and sickle were reflected in the window of the police station. Chacaltana took a drink, returned the bottle, and collapsed into a chair. He apologized. Aramayo walked slowly and deliberately to the window.

“The show's ending,” he said. “They'll start to quiet down.”

Chacaltana buried his face in his hands.

“Is it always like this?”

The lieutenant took another drink from the bottle.

“No. They're pretty calm today.”

One of the police burrowed beneath his sheets. Aramayo said:

“I don't think there are any dogs today. At the most some graffiti. Tomorrow we'll have to go out early to wash them off. Your buddy Carrión is coming to visit us.”

Chacaltana felt a flash of relief. He said:

“Excellent. The high command should know what is going on …”

Aramayo interrupted him with a laugh.

It seemed to Chacaltana that his laughter was morbid. With his back still turned to the prosecutor, the lieutenant said:

“The high command doesn't see us, Señor Chacaltana. We're invisible. Besides, the command doesn't command. Lima's in charge here. And the guys in Lima won't find out there's a war until they get a bullet up the ass.”

He walked heavily to his mattress. He put the bottle to one side and lay down.

“But don't worry, Señor Chacaltana,” he said with a yawn. “They'll realize it sooner or later. And they'll come, naturally they'll come. They'll send commissions, members of congress, reporters, military men, they'll put up a monument to peace … The only problem is that for this to happen, we'll all have to be dead.”

No one else spoke that night. The prosecutor curled up beside the door. He did not have the strength to move. He heard the volume and frequency of the shouts gradually diminish. Hours later, when sleep overcame him, the hammer and sickle were still burning in the mountains.

He opened his eyes. The police station was empty and the sun filtered in through a window over his head. His body ached, and he needed a shower. He rubbed his face to get rid of the sleep in his eyes and shake off his drowsiness. As he was trying to comb his hair, trying to see his reflection in the window, Aramayo came in:

“Good morning, Señor Prosecutor, did you sleep well?”

“It's not funny, Aramayo.”

Aramayo laughed, displaying his missing canines.

“Carrión's in the village. Poor Yupanqui had to climb the mountain to get rid of the remains of the bonfires. The others have spent the morning painting the walls. You'll see how pretty the village looks. Like Miami.”

He handed him a basin of cold water so he could wash his face. The prosecutor missed his toothbrush. He said:

“I have to speak with the commander.”

“The elections are tomorrow, so you won't have to spend many more bad nights. You can go back tomorrow night with the military transports carrying the urns.”

The prosecutor dried his face with his shirtsleeves and said:

“I am not the point. Somebody has to tell the commander what happened. Before they kill everybody.”

He looked at himself again in the window glass. He seemed a little more presentable. He walked to the door. Before he stepped outside, the lieutenant blocked his way with his arm.

“Don't tell them anything, Señor Prosecutor.”

“What? You need reinforcements. You have to immediately ask for …”

“There's nothing to ask for.”

“Let me try. The commander will understand.”

“The security of this village is my responsibility. If you complain to the high command you'll make a problem for me.”

“You already have a problem, Lieutenant. Didn't you notice that last night?”

He had to push away the lieutenant's arm in order to pass. The lieutenant looked as if he were about to speak again, but the prosecutor's eyes dissuaded him. As he was going out, Chacaltana heard the policeman's voice behind him.

“You don't know what a real problem is, Chacaltana.”

He did not want to hear him. When he walked out, he recognized the smell of fresh paint on some facades. Under the yellow, green, and white colors, the slogans in red paint were still visible. He looked for Carrión. His presence was felt in the number of armed soldiers walking the streets and standing guard at the corners. On the square were the jeep and the truck that had brought them here. Wherever the greatest density of soldiers was, that is where Carrión would be. And the greatest density of soldiers was in the National Office of Electoral Processes, where the commander was talking to Johnatan Cahuide. The prosecutor did not need to identify himself to approach them, and they greeted him with the remains of a breakfast and smiles. Carrión said in good humor:

“Dear little Chacaltita, my trustworthy man! Have some coffee.”

“Commander, we have to talk, Señor.”

“Of course. Johnatan Cahuide has been telling me about your efficient and meticulous work …”

“We have to talk about that too. I have reason to believe that certain prominent members of the military in this zone are preparing a fraud behind your back.”

Carrión's smile suddenly froze. Cahuide gulped. The commander put his cup down on the table and shifted in his chair.

“What did you say?”

“It is true. Perhaps a training course in democratic values is necessary for members of the armed forces who …”

“There you go again with training courses, Chacaltana, what a pest you are.”

“There are indications that …”

“Chacaltana …”

“The soldiers are campaigning in favor of the government …”

“Chacaltana …”

“Even coercing the vote of the peasants …”

“Chacaltana, damn it!”

They were silent. Carrión got up from his chair. Johnatan Cahuide looked at the prosecutor in terror. Carrión shouted at two soldiers in the doorway to get out, and he closed the door. Then he sat down. He let a few seconds go by while he calmed down.

“What are you doing, Chacaltana?”

“Presenting an oral report, Señor,” the prosecutor replied, surprised at the question.

At that moment the door opened and in came the functionary with the sky-blue tie whom Chacaltana had seen next to Carrión on the day of the parade. He was wearing the same tie and a badly pressed suit. The commander introduced him as Dr. Carlos Martín Eléspuru. With almost no voice, the man gave a somber greeting and sat in another chair. He poured some coffee. The prosecutor was still standing. Carrión had regained his composure and brought the newcomer up to date.

“Prosecutor Chacaltana has been … alarmed at the alleged behavior of some soldiers in the elections. Where did you get this information, Señor Prosecutor?”

Chacaltana looked at Cahuide, who gave him a pleading glance.

“Statements by the residents, Señor,” he replied.

Carrión put on that paternal smile again.

“Please, my dear Chacaltana, the residents can't even speak Spanish. I don't know what they tried to tell you, but don't worry about it.”

“Excuse me, Señor, but in elections …”

Carrión interrupted him:

“The people here don't give a shit about the elections, don't you know that?”

“But the fact is that according to the law …”

“What law? There's no law here. Do you think you're in Lima? Please …”

Carrión sat down. The man in the sky-blue tie passed him a paper, which the commander read calmly. They began to talk quietly. They seemed to have forgotten about the prosecutor. Chacaltana cleared his throat. They continued, not looking at him. Chacaltana had the impression that they did not want to look at anything else either, not anything that was real, not anything standing beside them, clearing his throat. He made a decision and spoke:

“Permit me to say, in that case, I do not understand what my function here is.”

Eléspuru and the commander stopped reviewing their papers. Carrión looked as if he were summoning all his patience in order to respond:

“Reporters will come to fuck over the armed forces. You have come to defend us. You can go.”

Eléspuru, as if he were thinking of something else, poured himself more coffee. He looked at the prosecutor. Chacaltana decided to say everything once and for all, make a last-ditch stand, the way heroes did:

“There is something else, Señor. Last night … a terrorist outbreak was verified in the zone.”

Eléspuru seemed to pay attention for the first time. Now he looked at the commander, who smiled with certainty.

“An outbreak. Don't exaggerate, Señor Prosecutor. We know there are a few clowns around here who set off fireworks, but they're harmless.”

“But the fact …”

“Did they kill anyone?”

“No, Señor.”

“Did they hurt anyone? Did they occupy any houses?”

“No, Señor.”

“Threats? Disappearances? Damage to private property?”

“No, Señor!”

“Were you afraid?”

He had not expected that question. In his mind, he had not wanted to formulate that word. He hated that word. He found himself obliged to acknowledge mentally that nothing serious had occurred last night.

“A little, Señor.”

The commander laughed louder. Eléspuru smiled as well.

“Don't worry, Señor Prosecutor. We'll leave a patrol here for any eventuality. Don't let yourself be intimidated. We sent you because you're a brave man. There may be a subversive or two left, but essentially we've gotten rid of them.”

Eléspuru looked at his watch and signaled to the commander, who stood up.

“It's time to bring this meeting to an end. We'll see each other in Ayacucho.”

The prosecutor shook the hand that the commander offered him. It was a hard hand that squeezed his as if it were going to break it. Looking into his eyes, the commander said:

“Tomorrow is a very important day, Chacaltana. Don't betray our trust. That won't be good for you.”

“Yes, Señor. I am sorry, Señor.”

Eléspuru said good-bye with a gesture, not offering his hand or letting his voice be heard. When they went out, Johnatan Cahuide said:

“Now you're really fucked, brother.”

They spent the rest of the morning making final preparations for the elections the next day and arranging the material in the school. At noon they went to have lunch at Cahuide's house. As they were eating a corn and pork stew, the prosecutor asked:

“How were you appointed to the position in the National Office?”

“I was head of the president's campaign in the region. Then they called me for this job.”

Head of the campaign. Yet Cahuide was so sincere that the prosecutor did not even want to hold the regulations in one hand and remind him of his duties. “Cahuide, do you realize that you are a huge walking electoral irregularity? You should be proscribed.”

“Are you going to proscribe me?”

No. He was not going to proscribe him. In the past twenty-four hours, the things that needed to be proscribed had grown dim.

“I will not do anything to you, Cahuide. And I could not. I am not here to avoid fraud, am I?”

“I'm not going to commit any fraud. And I know these things aren't seen very often, Chacaltana. But no one has organized anything. There's no need.”

“There's no need?”

Johnatan Cahuide offered him more stew. He served himself as well.

“Félix, eight years ago, if I went out they would kill me. Not now. The damn terrorists killed my mother, they killed my brother, they took away my sister so the damn soldiers could kill her afterward. Since the president took office, they haven't killed me or anybody else in my family. You want me to vote for somebody else? I don't understand. Why?”

Why? Chacaltana thought that the question did not appear in the manuals, the brochures, or the regulations. He himself had never formulated it. He thought that one should believe in order to build a better country. The person who asks does not believe, he doubts. One does not get very far with doubts. Doubting is easy. Like killing.

The two men sat in silence, thinking, until they heard the sound of motors and shouts in the streets. The sounds were much closer than the ones the night before. Cahuide closed the window. Chacaltana tried to look out.

“What is going on now?”

“Don't get involved, Félix, don't fuck around anymore.”

“I have to know what is going on.”

“Félix. Félix!”

The prosecutor went outside, followed by Cahuide. In the streets, young men were running, pursued by soldiers hitting them with their clubs. The jeep and the truck had closed off the two principal exits from the village. Patrols of soldiers with rifles were stationed around the perimeter. At times they fired into the air. The pursuers did not carry firearms but they did have clubs that they used to beat the fugitives who had fallen to the ground. Farther away, two soldiers broke down the door to a house. The wails of a woman were heard inside. A few minutes later, they came out with two boys about fifteen years old. They had twisted their arms against their backs and kicked them to make them walk.

“What is all this?”

Cahuide tried to make Chacaltana go back inside the house.

“Let it go, forget it.”

“How can I forget it? What are they doing?”

“Don't be an asshole, Félix. This is a press.”

“Press conscriptions are illegal …”

“Félix, stop thinking like a law book. Did you want security measures? Now you have security measures.”

“Where are they taking them?”

“They'll perform their obligatory military service. And that's it. They'll have work. There's nothing to do here. What do you want them to do? Study engineering? It's better for them. Félix. Félix!”

Chacaltana was hurrying to the police station. He remembered that electoral law prohibited detentions twenty-four hours before elections. He knew he would seem ridiculous, but he could not think of anything else to do.

Near the station was another military truck, toward which soldiers were shoving the young men they had hunted down. If they refused to climb in they were forced to by blows with a club to the face, stomach, and legs, until they had been hurt so much they could not refuse anymore. Three meters from the door of the police station, two soldiers stopped the prosecutor. He tried to resist and showed his identification, but they barred his way. One put his hand on his revolver. The prosecutor calmed down. He said he would wait. Farther away, in the dust raised by the skirmish, he could see the commander with the official in the sky-blue tie and Lieutenant Aramayo. Eléspuru seemed unperturbed and looked away while the commander shouted something at the lieutenant. The police officer looked down and nodded, appearing repentant, like a little boy admitting his mistakes, while the furious commander criticized him. After shouting several times in the confusion of the roundup, the commander walked away. He gestured to an officer, and his jeep drove up. He and Eléspuru climbed in. Only then did the prosecutor manage to break through and approach the vehicle.

“Commander! Commander!”

Carrión sighed. The prosecutor's presence exhausted him. He barely looked at him as he came up sweating, covered with dust in spite of his handkerchief and the clean, pressed suit he had worn for the occasion. Chacaltana panted as he spoke to him:

“Commander, this operation must be stopped. This is … it is …”

“Take it easy, little Chacaltita. We're picking up people without documents and those wanted for questioning. So they won't frighten you.”

The commander laughed, but not like a father. The jeep drove away, and behind it came the two military trucks filled with villagers and soldiers. In five minutes, even the town's dust was still, as if it were dead. A few meters away, the lieutenant followed on foot, chewing on his rage. The prosecutor tried to talk to him; he wanted to offer his cooperation in finding help at the highest level. But when he reached his side, the lieutenant spat in his face:

“Chacaltana, you motherfucker! I told you not to say anything! You're very brave. Huh? You want to be a hero? All right, then. We'll see who helps you when you come crying in the night. Your fucking mother will protect you. It's really easy to be a hero here.”

“But Lieutenant! The correct thing was …”

He could not go on. The continuation of that sentence was obscure, perhaps impossible. The lieutenant turned his back and went into the station. Chacaltana looked for a glance of support in the other policemen, who responded to him by dispersing, one by one.

The prosecutor returned to Cahuide's house. He knocked on the door several times, but no one answered. He went up to the window. Cahuide was there. From the interior he looked back at him with a mixture of pity and fear. The prosecutor did not insist further. He crossed the half-deserted village feeling the distrustful looks piercing him from the windows. They did not answer the door in the house where he was staying either. This time, he did not even go up to the window. He continued walking until he reached the countryside.

As he walked, not doing anything, he thought about Edith. He missed her, her silver tooth, her table settings in a restaurant where he had never eaten. He thought that, for the moment, Edith was the only person waiting for him. He did not know if he should tell his mamacita about it. He stopped at a stream to skip stones the way his mother had taught him when he was little. He became sad. The way things were going, Edith would have no good reason to respect him. He would not be promoted. Perhaps that was better. If Yawarmayo was a promotion, he preferred to stay where he was. He took a deep breath. For a few moments he enjoyed the peaceful light and air in the countryside. He forgot where he was.

As the ripples disappeared on the surface of the water, images reappeared as geometrical reflections: a branch, a projecting rock, a tree trunk. The images of the countryside seemed small, insignificant, so different from the disordered, foul-smelling visions of the capital. Among the decomposing figures he saw the face of his ex-wife. Perhaps she was right, perhaps Chacaltana had never had any ambition and the best thing for him was to sit in an office in Ayacucho and write reports and prepare recitations of Chocano. Ayacucho was a city you could walk all around on foot; he liked that. And it was a safe place, sheltered from roundups and bombs in the night. His ex-wife's face was turning into his mother's face. The prosecutor would have liked to do something to make her proud of him.

He decided to go back. He took a last look at the stream. The figures continued to play on the water. One of them was becoming fixed as the surface settled down. At first it appeared to be a strange bird, but then the prosecutor looked more carefully. That was not a bird. It was the shadow of a man.

He did not look up. He wanted it to be nothing but an optical illusion. He had already seen enough in the past two days. His eyes were not accustomed to seeing so much. Slowly, he moved toward a spot where the stream narrowed. He jumped to the other side in order to leave. The shadow did not move. He took a few more steps. About two hundred meters away, two campesinos, each with a machete, approached on foot. He wanted to call to them but was afraid of provoking the shadow. He thought about moving closer to them. After a few more steps, he could not control himself any longer. He shouted:

“Excuse me! Señores!”

The campesinos turned toward him. They made a move toward him but then seemed to think better of it. They stopped. The prosecutor greeted them from a distance. They looked at him with curiosity. They said something to each other. He smiled at them. They resumed walking and moved away, speeding up the pace. The prosecutor wanted to follow them or call to them. It occurred to him to identify himself as an electoral observer. He realized that the best thing was to let them go. He listened to the sound of the branches as they moved. He tried to hurry too and reach the village. At that moment, he was hit on the back of his neck by a falling body.

The blow made him lose his footing. He almost fell in the water but held on to the branches of a bush and managed to crawl out from under the pressure of the man, who rolled a few meters and stood to throw himself at the prosecutor. Félix Chacaltana recognized the dwarfish silhouette he had seen the day before at the entrance to the village. As he tried to stand, he caught a glimpse of the old shoes with the tire soles and, above all, the same red chullo cap he had pursued days before in Quinua. Justino Mayta Carazo did not give him time for more before he leaped at his throat.

The prosecutor managed to hit him in the face with a branch and run toward the steep rocks. He found himself facing a stone wall. Justino came bounding after him. Chacaltana began to climb. He felt that each rock pierced his hands, that his feet were slipping on the falling rocks. He did not want to look down. He simply let himself be hit in the face by some of the stones dislodged from the wall as he advanced. The rocks ended in an embankment. The prosecutor took several seconds to reach the top, feeling that at any moment he might slip down to the bottom. But spreading before him at the top was a large ascending plain surrounded by another stone wall. He ran. Justino had climbed up very quickly but seemed to be limping slightly after his fall from the tree. The prosecutor sensed that Justino was gaining on him, but the slopes of the rise were too steep for him to descend any of them. He veered to the right, trying to reach the next wall in order to climb it. He tried and failed, feeling that altitude and exhaustion were overwhelming him. His heart was pounding, he needed air. He reached the slope and clung to the rocks with his hands. He began to climb, supporting himself on occasional projections. He hung from a cornice and pushed himself forward. The vertical surface seemed impossible to conquer. He spent his last breath in the effort and managed to rest on a rock and move a meter up from the ground. When he tried to take the second step, his foot rested on a false projection and slipped. The rock he was on gave way, and his entire body hurtled toward the ground in a small avalanche of stone and soil. He fell on his back.

The campesino picked him up from the ground and pinned him against the wall. Chacaltana had time to think of something to say:

“Señor Justino Mayta Carazo, you are liable for contempt and lack of respect for the law.”

The other man shouted something in Quechua. His voice betrayed more fear than courage.

“I assure you that I will bring you up on charges for your assault on my physical well-being …”

Frothing at the mouth and sputtering in Quechua, Justino began to squeeze Chacaltana's neck. For a moment, the prosecutor had the sensation that the air was escaping his lungs, his throat, his mouth trying to articulate that he was merely an electoral official. The campesino did not let him go; on the contrary, the pressure became harder and harder. With his right hand, the prosecutor felt around him until he found a stone, lifted it, and with all his remaining strength hit Mayta in the face. The campesino fell to the ground. The prosecutor needed to catch his breath before he got to his feet. He gulped in all the air he could. He felt as if his chest were about to explode. Off to one side, Justino raised his hand to his face. The prosecutor was afraid he would attack him again. But the campesino in the red chullo began to sob gently.

“I ain't done nothin', Your Worship! My brother's the one. He does everythin'! Everythin'!”

“Honestly, I don't understand what you're saying,” the prosecutor managed to say.

“My brother, it's my brother, Your Worship! I ain't done nothin'!”

Chacaltana understood he could not say much else in Spanish. He understood what Pacheco and Carrión were alluding to when they said these people do not speak, do not know how to communicate, it was as if they were dead. The campesino did not crawl on the ground. His body was square and solid from working the land, but he did not seem to threaten him now, it was more as if he were pleading. He had moved from aggressor to victim to unmoving man. The prosecutor thought that now he would let himself be taken away peacefully, having understood the principle of authority that made him subordinate to the Ministry of Justice. He wanted to take the campesino someplace where there was a translator. His testimony had to be something important. He thought about calling Ayacucho. But he would not find a telephone he could use. The campesino sank progressively lower and lower until he was sobbing at his feet. The prosecutor decided he would oblige the police to receive him and take his statement. They could not refuse. Sobbing and whimpering, the campesino kept talking about his brother. The prosecutor wondered to which jurisdiction Yawarmayo belonged and which judge he would appear before. Suddenly a new possibility occurred to him that he had not considered previously. Or, rather, he had assimilated the obvious. He looked again at the wretched man groveling on the ground. He asked him:

“You were … you were going to kill me, weren't you?”

It had never occurred to him that someone might want to kill him. Perhaps Justino had intended to burn him and make his body disappear. He felt the impulse to hit him, to kick him until he bled. He realized he could not. Justino's pathetic suffering had disarmed him. The killer had been consumed in his own attack. Without warning, the wretch lamenting on the ground filled him with fear and pity, just like the mountains, the stream, the clean, dry air.

He grabbed Justino by the back of the collar and lifted him up.

“I am going to take you to the police station. The lieutenant will have to listen to me now.”

But Justino had other plans. As soon as he found himself on his feet, he gave the prosecutor a surprise blow in the stomach with his elbow. Chacaltana had the air knocked out of him, and could not respond. Justino punched him in the face and then kicked him to the ground. In one jump he was on the stone wall and began climbing again. Down below, Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar could do nothing but watch him disappear up the mountain while he tried to warn him that now he was committing the crime of assault and flight.

As soon as he recovered his strength, he returned to the village, thinking that the police still had time to pursue Justino. In the station he found Yupanqui and Gonza playing cards. He went in short of breath, panting. He had a bruise on his face.

“I found a terrorist. I have his name and description. I know where he has gone. We can still catch him.”

Yupanqui threw a card on the table. He did not even turn to look at him.

“Go away, Señor Prosecutor.”

“Listen to me! He is a killer. I can prove it.”

Yupanqui had won the hand. He smiled and picked up the cards from the table, along with three one-sol coins. Gonza made an annoyed face. Yupanqui said:

“If you don't leave, we'll have to throw you out.”

“I want to speak to Lieutenant Aramayo.”

Yupanqui shuffled and began a new deal. Chacaltana insisted:

“I want to speak to …!”

“Don't raise your voice, Señor Prosecutor. The lieutenant isn't here. As far as you're concerned, he won't ever be here again.”

The prosecutor left the police station. He walked to Teodoro's house, looking at the mountains, as if he might discover Justino's hiding place there. He understood that the enemy was like the hills: mute, immobile, mimetic, part of the landscape.

He had to knock a long time on Teodoro's door before they let him in. His things were still there but opened and disturbed. His suit was wrinkled and thrown under his bag. He was surprised to realize he did not care. Teodoro said something to him in Quechua. It did not sound like a lament. It sounded like a reproach. The prosecutor took a couple of coins from his pocket and put them on the ground, in front of the owner of the house, who said nothing else to him. Chacaltana appreciated the progress he had made in his ability to communicate. He lay down right away, in his clothes and shoes. Although it was just getting dark, he felt exhausted.

At night, he again heard the sound of bombs and saw the light of fires coming from the mountains. He did not turn to look at Teodoro's family, and he did not try to leave the house. The first shouted slogans seemed like the echoes of an old movie. Then, everything seemed like the background music to a nightmare.

He thought about his mother.

That night, he did not dream.

The next morning, he got up early to go to his work. At seven, police were still painting the facades of houses. No dogs had been hung that night either.

Voting began at eight, with six members absent from the table and a total ignorance of electoral procedures on the part of the other six. Some voters were recruited for the tables, and they tried to get out of their duties until two soldiers energetically asked them to sit down. No agent or representative of any political party was accredited. The entire police force guaranteed security in the area surrounding the Alberto Fujimori Fujimori School.

At about noon, a civil service helicopter appeared in the sky and landed at one end of the village, making the plants shake in the wind from the rotors. The villagers enjoyed watching it descend. The children went up to play with it. Civilian journalists climbed out with cameras and tape recorders. They were all white, Limenians or gringos. They looked very serious. They greeted the police and Johnatan Cahuide and went into the school to verify the normal process of the elections. They spoke with the two table members who knew Spanish. The table members asked if the president had come in their helicopter.

While the journalists were taking the usual photographs, a reporter went out to the square and lit a cigarette. One of the villagers came up and asked him for one. And then another villager. And another. In five minutes, the reporter was surrounded by villagers who wanted to smoke. Prosecutor Chacaltana considered it appropriate to move them away. He approached and asked them to allow the reporter to do his work in peace. When they were alone, the reporter said:

“It seems that everything's calm, doesn't it?”

“It seems so, yes.”

“There haven't been any problems the last few days? This zone is completely pacified?”

Prosecutor Chacaltana thought that perhaps it was his last opportunity to tell what he knew. The reporter could publish it and let them know about it in Lima, where they surely would become indignant and send a commission or demand an investigation. Perhaps the commander simply was not aware of what was going on, but if the order came from Lima, he would make new inquiries. He wanted to talk about Justino Mayta Carazo and his mysterious appearances and disappearances, about the hammers and sickles burning in the Yawarmayo night, about the shouts from the hills and the shouts of the young men from the village when they were shut inside the military trucks. He opened his mouth and began:

“Well, sometimes …”

“Sometimes you'd think there had never been a war here.”

The voice that interrupted him belonged to Lieutenant Aramayo, who had come up to them wearing an amiable, satisfied smile.

“As you can see,” the police officer continued: “A good climate, a peaceful countryside, people freely exercising their right to vote … What else could you ask for?”

“You're right,” said the journalist. “I ought to move here. Lima can be an unbearable city.”

“I can well imagine,” Aramayo replied with complicity. “Can I steal a cigarette from you?”

Prosecutor Chacaltana did not say anything for the next twenty minutes. Then the journalists returned to their helicopter and left. The winds did not allow planes to fly into Ayacucho after two in the afternoon. They were running out of time. From the ground, the prosecutor could see the cameras taking their final shots from the helicopter windows.

At four o'clock, when it was time for the voting tables to close, polls had called the opposition candidate the victor. Some gave him more than half the votes. At the National Office and among the military a strange uneasiness was spreading. Until five o'clock, Cahuide kept receiving phone calls and preparing the packages for the military truck. Officers ran back and forth, indifferent to the prosecutor, who had been transformed into one more object that had to be taken away, one that made no noise.

Four hours later, the truck was approaching Ayacucho with the radio playing. Filtering through the salsa and vallenatos that the soldiers had tuned in to for the trip was the announcement of the first official returns. All the polls had been wrong. The real winner was the president. It was about to be decided if there would be a recount. The soldiers driving the truck tuned in to music. Politics bored them.

That night, two hours before they arrived, Chacaltana remembered Aramayo's words when he said that in Lima they did not want to see what happened in his village. But he also asked himself why (lately he was asking himself why a good deal) the lieutenant had refused to inform the journalists and the high command. He thought that perhaps he was ashamed. It is not easy to admit that you are dead.